A Watched Kettle
by Shan Jeniah
Summary: Missing scenes and extrapolation of "The Seventh." Spoilers for that episode, at least.
1. A Call in the Night

She's reading, deeply absorbed in the handwritten journal of her second foremother T'Mir, when the comm signals a private, privileged communication from the Vulcan High Command. The tone announces that this is a highest level clearance, one which would circumvent normal ship's systems.

There is only one logical conclusion.

T'Pol is aware that she doesn't want to answer it; as though her refusal will change the fact of the call, and what it means. But, as she once said to Commander Tucker, what she wants is irrelevant. The needs of the many outweigh the desires of the one.

She speaks briefly with Minister K'Evel, certain that her manner is clearly betraying her unease, but unable to repress the physical responses, or the emotional discord that triggers them. Minister K'Evel gives no indication of it, but there is no way she's missed the lack of control. Would it be beneficial or detrimental to allow her to believe that it is a result of living and working with humans?

The communication is thankfully brief, and, once it's concluded, T'Pol moves away from her work station. Perhaps it would be wisest to begin reviewing the encrypted information that accompanied the transmission, but she will admit to herself that she is agitated at the thought of doing so. Instead she brings forth her table, her cushions, and her candle, and attempts to meditate.

Each time her eyes close, however, there is a sense of - of something. She can't name the emotions she's experiencing. Nothing in her training has prepared her to do so. She has been fascinated by the diverse range of words the humans she lives and serves with give to their emotional states; but she often doesn't understand the emotions to which they are referring. She's been conditioned, from infancy, to suppress emotion, to separate it from thought and action, rather than to label and define and allow it into every action and thought, as her human colleagues do.

Perhaps it would be useful to be a human now. A human could feel freely, and define the emotions. A human might also know how to deal with them. A human wouldn't be compelled by duty to their world to pursue a fugitive they were frightened to pursue.

Frightened?

Yes.

T'Pol is frightened. She doesn't want to find Menos, face the man who escaped her. She has no interest in returning a man who doesn't wish to return to Vulcan and live a Vulcan life. Seventeen years ago, she had never met a human. Her perspective was different; she did her duty simply because it _was_ her duty.

Now, she questions. What is wrong, in Menos' desire to live freely? Is it so different than her refusal to return home to be Koss's wife, to assume her role as an adult upon her world, produce a child, and ensure the continuation of the species, and the stability of her culture?

Why does she fear facing him, as though everything she knows, everything she's built, will collapse, if she captures him?

She sits until she can't deny the effort at meditation is a failure, that she is only becoming more agitated. She attempts to return to T'Mir's journal, then showers, although she already has, this evening, and goes to the Mess Hall, refusing to admit to herself that she's hoping Commander Tucker will be there, because he will surely notice her unease, and offer solace even if he doesn't understand it, and she can't speak about it.

But he isn't here, and, although she lingers, staring out the window at the stars, he doesn't come. She return to her quarters, and begins to review the materials she's been sent. She is only marginally successful at disregarding the unsettled emotions that will not be repressed, or even suppressed.

She can't restrain the agitation. It grows in her, as she alternately studies the material, rises to pace restlessly around her room, then studies until the fear - yes, she will call it fear, although she's certain it's more complex than that – drives her up again. Never before has she been so inexplicably resistant to completing a mission, and T'Pol can't ignore the fact that it was the mission to capture Menos - this same man - that had led to her resignation from the Ministry of Security. She's never completely understood that choice; she knows only that it was necessary, that she could no longer perform the duties she'd been required to attend to.

Can she, now?

T'Pol sits again, staring into the flame, and sees only the shape of emotions she can't fathom, emotions that are alive and moving in her, twisting her perceptions -

How do humans live, with this as their normal state of being?

Can she, if these unnamed and uncontrollable emotions won't abate, won't be repressed or even suppressed?

Meditation is not helping. It's 0530, still over 3 hours before her duty shift is scheduled to begin, and there is no logic in taking a third shower - but there is a solace she can't deny in the hot water - something she never experienced before coming to _Enterprise_. She stands under the powerful spray, illogically willing it to drive the unwanted, unnamed, uncontrolled emotion from her...

She stands until the alert says that she's in danger of exceeding her hot water ration, and then prepares for duty. Perhaps it will help to speak to Captain Archer, to extend him the human courtesy of informing him, before he receives the call from Admiral Forrest. He will want to know that _Enterprise_ is to be diverted and placed at the disposal of the Vulcan High Command.

Perhaps, once she has informed him, she will be able to fully commit to the mission, and suppress the her unease...

Decided, she requests the meeting, but it's awkward, and only increases the unsettled energy she'd hoped to alleviate. Captain Archer is displeased; he is illogically sensitive to what he sees as manipulation by her government. In typical fashion, he focuses his displeasure on her. Twenty minutes after she leaves his Ready Room, she receives a message that she is relieved of duty until her mission, 'whatever the hell it is', is complete, and she's been properly debriefed.

Relieved of duty, with nothing to focus on but the matter of retrieving Menos, T'Pol feels the upswell of emotions she can't name, hints of memories that won't resolve into her thoughts, where she can examine them. Surrounded by eighty-two other sentient beings, T'Pol retreats to her quarters, and, for the first time since she arrived here, feels completely alone.


	2. He Sees Her

Trip watches T'Pol while pretending not to - either he's gotten really good at that game these last two years, or she's so "agitated" and too busy trying to hide it, to notice. The way she's hugging herself, seeming like she's trying to hold herself together, and vanish in the mass of larger, blue-jumpsuited male bodies, says it's not his covert Vulcan-watching skills.

She's not just quiet, the way she usually is. She's damned near silent. Withdrawn. Almost as though none of this has anything at all to do with her, rather than being her secret mission.

What the hell are they making her do, and why does she look like it's a damned suicide run?

Why doesn't anyone else seem to notice just how upset she is, how strained and miserable she looks? Can't they tell how much this is bothering her?

But no one seems to. Trip pulls a quip or two out of his witticism toolkit, partly to shift the focus, partly to see if he can get anything more to go on than the non-information they're getting from the Cap'n, and the non-_anything _from her. Mostly, though, to let her know that he's here, and that he sees her. Sees that she's -scared?

Cap'n asks her what she'll need. "Cold weather gear, restraints, and phase pistols," she says, and now Trip_ knows_ she's scared. He's scared, too, even while he covers for her by exchanging glances with Travis. Her voice is low and rough with a quaver that says she's feeling way too much to be exactly rational. Finally, her eyes cut his way - but they never make it to his face.

Little Miss I'm a Vulcan; I'm Not Scared can pretend if she needs to. But Trip Tucker knows better, even if no one else does.

If only he knew what to do to make her feel better...or how to get her out of this mission...


	3. A Watched Kettle

She's standing at the stovetop, staring into the steam from a whistling kettle that ought to have set this pretty, sensitive ears of hers on high alert. Instead, she's just staring, her eyes vacant, as though she's not seeing anything in the galley.

She's shaking so hard she's got her hands braced uncomfortably close to the heating element beneath the kettle, but she doesn't seem to notice that, either.

The way she's acting is starting to scare the hell out of_ him_, too, and he tries again to break her out of it, before she hurts.

"It must not be true for kettles -"

She actually jumps, making a startled little squeak like a human woman who's just seen a mouse, and she whirls into a defensive crouch, hands coming up to guard her face and belly, one elbow knocking into the tea mug he hadn't seen till now, and the sound of it shattering against the deck plating makes her breath come hard and fast, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and still not here, not really.

"Hey, sorry - I didn't mean to scare you. Just trying to make a joke - guess I figure that if I can tickle your funny bone - "

"'Funny bone'?" she echoes, and, even though it sounds involuntary, her breath starts to even out a little. She frowns and shakes her head. "Too loud -"

"I'll buy that," Trip agrees. "If I come over there and turn that off, you're not gonna drop me, are you? Cause, for a small person, T'Pol, you pack a helluva wallop..."

She looks confused, her gaze flicking to him, then the screaming kettle, the door, the mug on the floor. "No," she says, finally, in a faint voice - and her legs start to fold up under her -

"Hey - take it easy," he says, jumping in to catch hold of one of her arms. Damn, she's shaking so hard it's almost like she's in shock. What the hell does her damned government want her to _do_, anyway? "Lean on me. I'll get you to a stool, okay?"

"Yes."

On the way past, Trip shuts off the stove, and the kettle promptly goes from an angry shriek to a lower-pitched cry, and T'Pol sighs in relief, and leans into him. She doesn't say anything; he thinks maybe she's still more somewhere else than she is here. He wants to know what the hell's gotten her into this state, but this isn't the way to find out. Besides, with the way she and the Cap'n were acting earlier, it's damned near sure to be 'classified'. Wouldn't be fair to try to get it out of her this way.

"What were you trying to do, test the theory? If so, I think you got the answer." He chatters to give himself something to focus on besides how good she smells, and how natural it feels to have her weight against him like this. He guides her to a stool, and gets her settled.

"Theory?" She answers, but there's something hollow in the word, like she's only going through the motions here, and most of her is busy with something else. Like that damned secret mission.

"You know - well, maybe you don't. 'A watched pot never boils.'"

"That's illogical. The pot would not boil; it's the contents that are intended to do so. Nor would being observed affect the process."

"Ahh, so you are still in there. It's not talking about the science of boiling points, T'Pol. It means that if you keep watching and waiting for something to happen, it seems to take a hell of a lot longer than if you just- you know - went about your business."

"The water in this kettle boiled despite my observation."

Trip went over to it, slipped on an oven mitt, and lifted the kettle. "I'll say it did. If you still want tea, I'll start some more. There's not even close to enough left here for a cup." He doesn't mention that she must have been standing there for a long time, for the kettle to be so close to empty.

"I wasted water - "

"No you didn't. The galley's got humidity sensors. When it gets steamy, the extra vapors are collected and returned to the ship-s"

"You don't understand. The first reality every Vulcan child learns is that water is the most precious resource. It must never be wasted."

"That's the first thing you learn? Before gravity, even?"

"Yes. Vulcan is a desert world. There are very few bodies of open water; it must be drawn from beneath the surface."

"So that's why you can go days without - I've always wondered about that. Mind if I ask why you didn't turn this off? " He doesn't look at her while he fills the kettle with enough tea for two; she won't ask, but he;s got the feeling she needs not to be so alone, so isolated, while she wrestles with whatever this mission was.

Are they sending her off to hunt down a serial killer? No, somehow he can't imagine that phasing her in the least. This is something else.

"I was watching the steam. It reminded me of - of home." He voice is so soft, he can barely hear her., and he's sure she was about to say something different.

He doesn't let on, though. Instead, he gets the small broom and dustpan Chef keeps handy, and cleans up the broken pottery, The smell of loose leaf chamomile wafts up, mingling with the scent of T'Pol on the air, and saves him needing to ask what she's drinking.

"Wanna know something? Sometimes, I borrow Porthos from the Cap'n. We've all changed some, out here, but a dog is still a dog, no matter where he is - or at least, Porthos hasn't forgotten he's an Earth beagle. I take him down to the cargo bay and let him sniff out bits of cheese- maybe don't tell the Cap'n that part, OK? Beagles, you see, are famous for their noses - and that sound they make, too. It just makes me feel better, when I'm a little homesick, to play with a dog again." She doesn't say anything, but, when he stands up to dump the mess into the resequencing bin, he takes a quick peek, and she seems a bit calmer, anyway.

He doesn't have to wait long; the kettle was close was boiling by the time he gets to the end of the cleanup. He ducks out, grabs two mugs, gets back just as the kettle starts to sing. He lifts it before it can assault her ears again, and fixes their tea while she watches.

"I didn't know you experienced homesickness." She sounds a hell of a lot better, like he'd given her something else to focus on, and she needs that right now.

Trip shrugs. "I love Earth. Left a lot of people I love back there. My folks, my big brother and baby sister, some really good friends...thing is, I love space, too. This is where I want to be, but it doesn't mean I don't miss where I've been." He brings her the tea. "I saw some carrot cake out in the serving case. I'm going to grab it. I think there was some salad, and I know Chef keeps plomik broth handy - you want something?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not hungry."

"You didn't come to breakfast, T'Pol - or lunch, or dinner. Even you have to eat - I know enough science to know that herbivores like you need to eat more often than us omnivores, not less."

"I'm not hungry," she says again, a little more emphatically. A pause. "But I will have a piece of cake." She looks up at him with lost eyes, eyes that seem to beg for understanding, or maybe absolution for what she's about to do. Other than maybe Phlox, Trip's the only one aboard who knows how sugars affect her, that having a slice of cake is about the same as having a few stiff drinks, for her.

"All right," he tells her. "You just sit tight. I'll be right back -"

"I prefer to sit in the Mess Hall, where we may look out the window."

"I'm game. Need a hand?"

"No."

She sits at the table closest to the window, and Trip sets down his tea, then goes back to the serving case for two slices of cake. "Before you eat this, I want to tell you something."

"Yes, Commander?

"Just that I'm not going to ask you about - well, about your mission. Not that I don't want to know what's it is that's got you so scared -"

"I don't experience -"

"Save it for the rest of the crew, T'Pol. You and I both know that you can feel just as much as any of us, so there's no point in denying this one's got you nervous. I'm not gonna ask, but I do want to tell you - I think you should consider taking backup."

"You?"

"I'd do it for you in a heartbeat, T'Pol - but I'm not so sure I'm your best bet this time around. I seem to bring out - well, not always the best side of you, and I can tell you need to be at your best for this one. I think you should ask the Cap'n, or Malcolm, to go with you."

"Why?"

He doesn't look directly at her; she doesn't like to meet eyes directly when she feels vulnerable. That was one of the first things he figured out about her. "Because whatever this is is already turning you into a wreck, and you haven't even left the ship. I think you need someone with you who you can trust, if you need them."

"I'm not authorized to include anyone else."

"If the High Command could see what this is doing to you, they might not ask you to do whatever this is at _all._ Just tell me you'll think about it, OK?"

"I will think about it." She lapses into silence, focusing on the cake. Trip notices that she never looks out the window, not once. When she finishes she sighs deeply, and rises a little shakily.

"Hold on there, T'Pol. Like I've told you, I'm a gentleman. And a gentleman always walks a lady home when she's had one too many."

"I'm not a lady."

"Oh, yes, you are. Let me walk you home."

"You won't - attempt to take advantage of my intoxication?"

"Nope. No gentleman would - not in _any _way. Your honor - and your secrets - are safe with me."

He means it. Of course, there's not much he can do about it, if she reveals a clue or two as to what she's up to.

But she doesn't. When they reach her door, she half-turns to him. "Thank you, Commander." And then she slips inside, and the door closes between them. Trip stares at it for a minute or two, not sure if he helped, or just made things worse for her. Then he sighs, and goes back to the Mess Hall to clean up the remains of their snack.


End file.
